Sure, Curtis tells the dead phone. I guess that works. What’s the arrival time?
Ghostly clicks from the earpiece, like pebbles dropped in a dry well.
Got it, Curtis says. Look for me at baggage-claim. Don’t leave. I may be a couple minutes late.
He hangs up the phone. Change of plan, he says. Stanley’s flight was delayed. They’re not coming here. I’m supposed to meet them at McCarran.
Albedo stares at him. Then he stands up. How is that gonna work? he says.
Look, man, I didn’t know what else to do.
Albedo still seems dazed, but he’s snapping out of it. How ’bout you get ’em the fuck over here, he says. That’s what. Or you send ’em someplace else. Anyplace else. A goddamn police station’d be an improvement. Jesus, Curtis, the fucking airport? Exactly how many people are you gonna make me have to shoot?
Curtis swallows hard. I think Stanley’s spooked, he says. He knows something’s off. Veronica wasn’t sure where they were going after they picked up his bags. I don’t even know if he’s gonna wait for his bags, man. I think he might bolt.
Albedo’s face clouds; his jaw sets. That’d be kinda bad for you, he says.
Yeah? Curtis says, forcing a panicked shrillness into his voice. So let’s get rolling, all right?
Albedo drops Argos’s pistol back in the coinpail, then tucks Curtis’s revolver into his belt, covering it with his motorcycle jacket. On their way out of the room they both step over The Mirror Thief, a dark window in the neutral beige carpet. Curtis hopes that whoever finds it will know what to do with it. Know better than he did, anyway.
He’s scared the elevator will slide open to reveal Walter’s surprised face — that after their week of butting heads, he and the old man will each wind up being the last thing the other sees — but when the car arrives, it’s empty. They don’t meet him on their way out either, only a prim pink-haired old lady in a gold lamé jacket, balancing on an aluminum-frame walker. Her blue eyes are big and damp; her pupils frosted with blindness. She smiles sweetly as they rush past.
Curtis keeps hoping that Kagami’s gotten wind of what’s up — that he’ll have LVMPD waiting at the exit — but everything looks routine on the gaming floor. On the way to the lobby Curtis spots a couple of security officers among the tables, but none who’s likely to be armed. He doubts Albedo would think twice about shooting in here, so he keeps his eyes forward, doesn’t try anything. He’s still jittery from the gunshots, but his legs are firming up fast, his mind is humming. All week long he’s just been playing around; now he’s in real trouble. It still doesn’t feel real, though. Stanley wouldn’t have put him in this spot unless he was sure Curtis could find a way out. Would he?
G Seventeen, says a clear amplified voice from the bingo room. G Seventeen.
Outside the western sky is dark except for a blue rind at the horizon. The black field is vented all over by starlight, gritty and diamond-hard, except for a few spots where invisible clouds block it. Albedo wraps his parking ticket in a twenty, passes it to the valet, tells the kid to fucking step on it. Then he turns to face the leprechauns. You Irish, sweetheart? he says. You don’t look Irish. But green is definitely your color.
The girl flashes a grin which immediately turns queasy when she notices Albedo’s bloody hands and ripped knees and the dead-fish look in his eyes. She shrinks back, lifts her basket of plastic shamrocks in both hands like a flimsy shield. Her partner — a little older, a little more assured — glances at Curtis. She looks worried, which must mean that Curtis looks scared. What’s wrong? her eyes say. Can I help? Curtis tries to smile.
Soon he hears the monstrous engine of Albedo’s car; he still can’t see it. The valet parking lot is underground, off the building’s north side; Curtis hadn’t noticed it before. The big black Merc makes the corner, rolls up the drive. Its weak yellow headlamps sweep them: searchlights in search of something else. Curtis still doesn’t know how he’s going to sidestep whatever’s coming. Then, suddenly, he does. He knows exactly.
As the car pulls to the curb, Curtis glances through the windows. The usual junk inside — magazines and newspapers, paper bags and plastic cups — plus some interesting new hardware in the backseat: what looks like a tablet PC with a GPS attachment, what looks like a handheld police scanner. Interesting, but not surprising.
The valet opens the Merc’s door, then steps hurriedly aside. His expression is disgusted, freaked-out. Your chariot stands at the ready, my brother, Albedo tells Curtis. You may take up the reins.
Hey, Curtis says. Guess what? I can’t drive.
Albedo gives him a fierce look. Then he steps forward. Hey, he says. Guess what? Fuck you. I known me a whole shitload of one-eyed dudes in my time. All of them motor around just fine.
Too bad none of them are here, Curtis says. Because I don’t.
Albedo has already opened the passenger door. Look, he says. Don’t smartmouth me, Curtis. Get in the fucking car.
Curtis gets in the car. He has to slide the seat forward a good six inches to get his feet comfortable on the accelerator and clutch. The shoulder-straps bolted to the seatback are too high for him; he doesn’t even try to put them on. Something somewhere in the car smells like piss and shit and worse things, and Curtis starts to breathe fast and feel sick. He fastens his lap belt. Then he fusses with the mirrors.
Oh come the fuck on, Albedo says.
You’re gonna have to help me watch to my left, man. I can’t see there at all.
Albedo puts the pail with Argos’s pistol on the Merc’s cluttered floor. Curtis’s revolver is in his right hand. There ain’t nothing to your left, he says. There ain’t nothing nowhere. Now get this bitch in gear and drive.
Curtis puts the car in gear. It rolls gently from the curb. The downgrade carries it past the limestone QUICKSILVER sign to the narrow roadcut of the exit-ramp. Curtis brakes to a stop and sits there for a long time with the Merc’s left-turn indicator clicking and flashing. No traffic comes from either direction. Over the mutter of the big engine, Curtis hears a jet pass overhead.
You’re clear, Curtis, Albedo says. You are completely, totally clear, my man.
Once he’s made the left turn, Curtis eases toward the flashing red light, coasting in neutral as the incline grows steeper, stopping well before the white band painted on the blacktop. It’s easy, driving. He’s not sure why he expected it to be hard.
Okay, Curtis says. You gotta help me out here.
A long line of headlights is coming from the right: cars hung up behind some kind of heavy truck, maybe a dumptruck. Vehicles on the left, too, in the distance: the blurry lump of Curtis’s nose is edged by the glow of approaching halogen. On the other side of the road there’s a wide shoulder and a guardrail, then nothing: the ground plunges away into what must be a deep wash. Traffic on the through-street seems to be doing about fifty as it passes beneath the two flashing yellows. Tilted on the downgrade, the Merc’s weight strains against its brakes.
You can turn now, Albedo says.
This is not gonna work, man.
Quit acting like a little girl, Curtis. You just missed your shot. Ooch up a little so’s I can see, and put your signal on.
Curtis flips on the right-turn signal, eases up very slightly on the brake. The Merc jerks forward a few inches. To the right, the big truck labors on the upgrade; cars cluster impatiently behind it. More vehicles pass from the left, lit by the Merc’s headlamps: an SUV, two sedans. Soft underwater whooshes as they go by. Am I clear? Curtis says.